Fear of Flying
by Panzer Panda
Summary: All of a sudden you want to throw the teacup, dish and tea and all, at his head. Maybe knock that stupid pair of glasses clean off his face, draw blood, or just knock him out of that egotistical state of stupor that he's so engrossed in. "What do you want, America?" [drabbleish oneshot with USUK undertones]


**Fear of Flying**

You make a point of letting your teacup _clink_ loudly against the fragile glass surface when you set it down, pointedly glaring across the light air of the room to where _he's_ sitting, all casual up against the windowsill. Just the way you taught him not to be: loose-limbed and looking like a positive moron.

All of a sudden you want to throw the teacup, dish and tea and all, at his head. Maybe knock that stupid pair of glasses clean off his face, draw blood, or just knock him out of that egotistical state of stupor that he's so engrossed with.

"What do you want, America?"

You're surprised at how soft and civil you are being with this barbarian. You really could throw the expensive porcelain at him, you could. All it would require would be the clean sweep of your hand; your left one, of course, because you don't think that small joint ache in your right arm from the Revolution will ever leave. You can still feel rain approaching from the dull shivers you get up your right arm, and with your weather, one would suppose that you feel that dull shiver a lot.

You get it when he's around too. You shiver _everywhere_ when he flashes that stupid smile that you're a little too used to to smack him for.

"'m dropping in, checking up on you," America says, tugging at the undone top button of that lurid red plaid shirt he's wearing. _Tasteless. _"It's been a while, so I wanted to see how you've been coping." At your silence, he continues his efforts to sustain this sinking ship of a conversation. "A lot has been changing."

"Yes." You speak too softly and with too much class to come off as brusque, but the frayed tones of your voice are hinting at it. You swallow emotions like bile with the next mouthful of tea.

You hate it whenever he comes over like this, to 'just check up on you', or conduct some meagre form of business. You hate it with a vehemence because,_ really_? There is nothing to say between the two of you that wasn't screamed out during his Revolution. You're out of words, and you hate it when he pretends he isn't.

It's going to be another few decades before you try and pull things together a little better, to scrounge up something positive to say and some better reason to ever try to have a conversation. Until then? He should leave you the _hell_ alone- maybe go make some more damn alliances, screwing every other nation. You hear he's doing _great_ with Asia, as well as some of your siblings.

Immigration is _repulsive_ like that.

This awkwardness you feel is all his fault, of course. You wonder what you did to raise him to make everything about him clash with you so violently. And then, you wonder why you didn't try to change that the second you saw in forming in him. He clashes and wreaks destruction like a bull in a china shop. Why didn't you change that? Push it down before it became a part of him?

"'Yes'?" he says. You look up from the deep reddish-brown of your tea, and raise a thick eyebrow at him. He sounds angry, and you're too used to just making this face whenever he raises his voice at you. America repeats, "'Yes'? That's all you've got to say when we haven't talked in.. what, ten years?"

"We've talked," you insist, eyes returning to peering lackadaisically into your tea.

"Business deals and politics, and it's our bosses," America says snappishly, "bosses don't count. And, by the way, our bosses are convinced that things are just _peachy_ between us, you know?"

"Are they?"

You're at about at your limit here. You want to say 'They aren't' but you pride yourself in civility with foreign affairs. Of course, a lot of other nations would scoff at this, but you're in earnest. But you feel like some sort of levee inside you has broken and you continue, "They're mistaken."

America looks offended when you hazard a furtive glance upwards. His blue eyes are like stars, lighting up this entire room with just how bright they are. You don't know where he got those eyes from- or who- but they are probably the best features about him, in all your supposedly low opinion of him.

"Do you want them to be mistaken, Arthur?"

Oh.

That's why.

It's the way he says 'Arthur' that gets you every time like this. The way it slides off his tongue because he's been saying it all his life and it just comes as naturally as it does. The way it makes your grip around your teacup slip a little and you always set your cup down on the table before it shows.

Wonderful; with the teacup half-empty and set on the coffee table, now you have nothing reasonable to look at other than his eyes. You try to relax into your sofa; attempt at some composedness. "It's not a matter of want."

And here he scoffs. "Yeah. More like a matter of social etiquette and norms. I'm still wondering when you're gonna get it that I have a culture, too."

"I've accepted that. There's no way we could share cultures."

You're surprised at how cold that came out, and instantly open your mouth to try and damper the effects of your words, but America raises and hand to cut you off.

"You know," he says, tucking his thumbs into those dreadful, beaten-looking jeans he's wearing. They're dirty and they're blatant evidence that he's been mining with them. "That's what I was thinking. That after all we felt and said and did in the Revolution-" oh God, he's talking about it- "-we'd be more open with each other. After everything healed, of course."

You want to say _'I don't do open'_ but that would sound like him. "Everything hasn't healed yet, Alfred," you say softly, bending over the table eventually, resting your hands over your knees and emptily looking at the ground. You like this position and the safety it grants you. It's very closed and you feel like you can shut him away whenever you want to. "Take responsibility for your actions and be practical," you continue in your teacher-like tone, "and accept that I may not welcome you always with open arms after your little violent rebellion."

_(Well, it's not that you don't want to. Slowly you've come to accept that really, you're just afraid of going out of the norm, and afraid of the fact that you're really not angry at him anymore. You should be angry after all of this, but you badly want to just..)_

He's quiet. He's quiet for a very long time and you're convinced that you've hurt him well enough, and he's not going to come back again.

Things are going to be awkward and quiet over the Atlantic between the two of you for another decade and you _will not care._ You will forget, with a novel between your fingers and a cup of tea secure in your other hand. You will pointedly ignore the subject of that _stupid, stupid, overconfident nation_ that is just across the sea from you, rising above and taking names.

The room is so deafeningly silent that you are convinced that Alfred has left. You don't think it's possible for him to be quiet for so long.

By the time you decide to finally look up, America's back is facing you, giving you a full view of the taller, fleshed-out physique he's been gradually easing into over the years. His muscles are beginning to show, even beneath the lurid plaid pattern of his shirt, and his jeans are ludicrous but practical. He's wearing boots and they're soiling your floor.

You find yourself taking in these details with improper interest, flutter your eyes closed a little and take a suddenly bitter sip from your cooling tea. America is still silent, unmoving and so well-formed that you might start to confuse him with a statue.

"Well, America, you've checked up on me now. Are you content to leave?"

And so he leaves you, not saying a word and walking out your door like a dead man would. The door is left open, bringing in all the chills of a November morning and drowning out all the sights and sounds and smells that he left behind.

You stand, brush off your pants like your dusting off evidence of his presence. You look at that spot where he was standing, blink, and then you head for your whiskey cabinet. Just a glass of whiskey and those piercing blue eyes can be forgotten, you swear.

_fin_


End file.
